


Our House

by jpgr1963



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Domme Jane, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, M/M/F (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/jpgr1963
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Paul get a new house in Sussex in 1986. The lads with Slasher!Jane in Scotland.</p><p>An additional chapter to <b>The Contract</b>. Originally posted at McLennonLand on LiveJournal in 2012.</p><p>Disclaimer: This is pure fiction, nothing in this story is real, just all make believe, no intention of libel, no implied ownership, so chillax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our House

**Sussex, England, 30 September 1986**

“This’ll do.”

He smiled.

And his freckled cheekbones lifted his thin-framed glasses ever so slightly, and the laugh crinkles deepened at the corners his almond eyes.

He beamed his genuine, electric smile a lot more often these days.

Content, anxious, besotted, irate, lustful, detached… Lennon was still as much the same beautiful mess of fluctuating raw emotions as he’d ever been. He was mercurial John fucking Lennon.

He just smiled more now.

John wanted to move out of London; over the past couple of months or so, his relentless stubborness to get his way had gradually worn Paul down, despite McCartney’s sentimental attachment to his St. John’s Wood home. They wouldn’t sell Cavendish, but they would relocate the family.

John was adament. Paul surrendered.

This recently listed, large estate in east Sussex was bloody perfect… more than enough space and rooms for all their kids to visit for holidays.

Wearing faded black jeans, white sneakers and a navy jacket over his white dress shirt, without the bold tie that Paul had suggested he wear, John stood at the large bay window in the massive master suite, looking down at the expanse of lush green lawn that rolled off to a dense patch of woods in the distance. He noticed how the manicured control of the formal gardens magically intertwined with a wild patch of woodlands… a forest hideout for forts and adventures and make-believe.

They’d have fun here. Lennon was sure of it.

It was an English garden… beautifully balanced and yet caught in the tension of complementing opposites.

A Lennon and McCartney landscape.

More important, the house and its expansive, high-walled grounds were isolated.

Secure.

Safe.

A buffer… no, a fucking fortress… to protect their family from the prejudice that still haunted them ever since that Rolling Stone exposé on their life-long love affair had been published three years earlier. Prick Wenner got his Pulitzer. They got ridicule and scorn. Things had calmed down some after the initial shock of the “Lennon and McCartney are queer” article, but John figured that the cloud of homophobia would always hang over them in some way or other.

Didn’t hurt the new record sales though, did it?

John reached over and pulled down on the metal lever, opening the window ajar. A cool breeze blew in, filling the room with the earthy smells of autumn.

“Narrow-minded cunts, the lot of them.”

Despite his partner’s protests to the contrary, John had decided that most people would never accept the fact that he and Paul… that two ex-fucking-Beatles… could have fallen madly in love as lads, changed the world forever, kept their passion a veritable secret for decades… Christ, sometimes a secret from each other… and then chucked the bullshit publicity lie for the sake of their own happiness. There were moments, usually late at night with Paul asleep and snuggled close by his side, when John couldn’t believe they’d actually done it either.

His eyes glassy wet with an unexpected surge of emotion, Lennon pulled out his pack of Gauloises; he lit a cigarette, inhaling slowly, his narrow, steel-brown eyes fixed on the shadows of the enchanting, wooded playground off in the distance.

And now there was the bloody gay plague. Shit, the world was in a panic over a contagious, lethal virus that some bastards claimed was a divinely designed epidemic unleashed to viciously punish homosexual men for their deviant perversions. Bigotry now exasperated by a torrent of fear.

Bloody hell.

They weren’t infected with the germ or virus or whatever the fuck it was. They’d been tested, several times. At least that’s what the doctors had told them, several times. Shit, John didn’t believe anyone anymore. The doctors had better fucking be right… he and Paul had kids to take care of, to watch grow and thrive. They had a future, together… finally.

And soon another child would be here. Christ.

John raked his right hand through his maple curls, peppered with silver-grey at the temples, and inhaled again, too deep and too fast… fidgety and temporarily annoyed at the entire, shitty disease-filled universe.

What the fuck were he and Paul doing? Having another baby in their mid-forties… a miracle child that they would raise together? A kid with two queer fathers?

Bloody Paul fucking McCartney and his daft, pie-in-the-sky schemes.

Beautiful, amazing Macca…

Pollyannaish, tenacious twat.

John laughed softly, as a trail of smoke escaped from his lips.

No regrets. They jumped headlong over the poofter cliff, and sod it all if they were gonna turn back now. There was the new baby.

His baby.

Their child.

Some time around the end of November, a bundle of fresh innocence and talcum powder would be handed over and cradled in their arms. Less than two months or so of waiting and worrying… less than two more bloody months to get everything prepared for the McCartney-Lennon arrival. Fucking hell.

John’s thoughts were interrupted when he noticed the distinct tapping sound made by two pairs of expensive leather dress shoes skipping rapidly up the wide, wooden stairs, one following the other. They were close, probably steps away from the landing at the second floor.

“We can change anything you require, Mr. McCartney! Décor, walls… anything at all! We’ll refurbish this property into your ideal residence. Absolutely anything can be changed for you.”

Where the hell did Paul find these squealing sycophantic swine?

“There you fucking are! Christ, John… I turn around and you’re go--”

Paul froze mid-word, astonished by the scale and garish opulence of the estate bedroom. Ornately carved, over-sized white lacquered furniture, embroidered satin bed coverings in rich shades of yellow and lavender, antique lace and fucking ruffles everywhere.

“This… this has to be bloody changed,” Paul chirped, his voice unnaturally low from the shock.

“Certainly, Mr. McCartney! Are there any walls you’d like removed? We work with a reputable remodeling firm…”

In his charcoal, dapper pinstriped suit accented by a bright yellow silk tie, Paul arched his left eyebrow, tilted his head slightly and scratched his chin. “Well, I suppose those two smaller rooms could be…”

“We’re not knocking down any walls! No fucking way. Got it?” John spun around, dismissing the agent with a snarl and a fierce glare. After the salesman turd wisely scurried out of the room, Lennon turned back towards the window, away from his shocked and miffed partner.

“No renovations, Paul.  I fucking hate that construction crap, and we need to move out of Cavendish now. It’s not fucking safe there and…” John paused to rub his eyes behind his lenses, his voice cracking as he tried to calm himself down. “This house is fine the way it is. We’ll make it work.”

Less than a week after Paul’s 44th birthday bash in the garden of their shared London home just months earlier, a crazed lunatic claiming to be a hardcore Beatles fan broke in through a window during the dead of night. Fortunately, as a result of death threats they’d received since they’d first gone public, not to mention dead Sutcliffe’s spooky warnings, Paul had hired round-the-clock security guards; the big bald bloke, Graham something-or-other, had tackled and disarmed the fanatic before he made it upstairs. It scared the crap out of Sean—out of everyone—especially after security discovered that the captured intruder had been carrying a loaded handgun in his jacket pocket. Fucking hell…

John rubbed his eyes again and sighed with a shudder, trying to shake off that awful memory.

“Johnny...” As he wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist from behind, up and underneath the light wool jacket, Paul whispered into John’s left sideboard, nuzzling him with his nose.

“Shit, you’re right. It’s fine. Sean and the new baby will be safe here, luv. We’ll all be safe… and happy.”

He could feel the bottled-up tension in those broad muscles, and hummed softly; John closed his eyes and leaned back into the embrace.

Another Lennon sigh… followed by a hard swallow.

“What if she changes her mind, Paul?”

Ah, there it was. The real visceral terror that was eating away at John’s gut.

Paul released his grip and turned John around by his shoulders to face him. After carefully pulling his glasses down the bridge of that spectacular aquiline nose, McCartney looked his partner straight in those golden-brown eyes, as he ran his hands up the sides of John’s head, lacing his long fingers through John’s soft, corkscrew curls.

“That’s not gonna happen. Stop borrowing troubles, John. I spoke with Jane just yesterday and everything is fine. Besides, we’ve a signed custody agreement, on paper. A contract.”

“That contract is worthless if she changes her mind, and you fucking know that!”

Paul turned his face to the side and rubbed his knotted brow in small circles with his fingertips, his lips pursed.

John was right.

The contract had no real legal authority. They all knew that, despite the luncheon meeting in London to get all four signatures on the custody agreement that Paul had charged his solicitors to concoct for the unusual circumstances. Shit, that was bloody uncomfortable… sitting there with John across a secluded restaurant table from Jane and her hesitant but ultimately cooperative husband.

Fucking Christ, that was an odd scene—holding hands out of view under the table, feeling John squeeze his fingers when he unexpectedly got a jolt of the shivers. Paul would never understand how Jane had convinced her talented, doting husband to let her fuck John and then carry a baby for Lennon and his lover… her ex-prick-of-a-Beatle-boyfriend. Hell, Paul really didn’t want to know how she’d managed pull off the seemingly impossible anyroad. Just that she did it… that was good enough.

“Listen, John. Jane won’t change her mind. She suggested this whole arrangement in the first place, for fuck’s sake.”

“Janey bird suggested a week of pounding and then just bloody offered to hand over the baby to us? Is that what you expect me to believe, luv?”

“Well, it didn’t happen exactly that way then, but yeah. It’ll be all right, John. She’s not gonna change her mind.”

Paul had already chanted those desperate words to himself over and over, more times than he could have possibly counted.

_She’s not gonna change her mind. She’s not gonna keep the baby. She’s not gonna change her mind…_

The previous March, the three had made a rather spontaneous trip up to Paul’s secluded farm in Scotland for a week. Jane had rung them up one night after dinner, claiming that it was the right time. She’d been getting injections to help ensure she’d get pregnant; a few days of constant sex should do the trick, she assured them. Seeing as he never seemed to impregnate anyone very easily, John was openly skeptical. So was Paul, but he didn’t let on. He figured that if it didn’t happen, they just try again the following month, and then the month after that. Whatever it took, he’d get a baby.

Their baby. A precious little Johnlet to love and raise together.

Nevermind Jane’s kinky demands; McCartney would do whatever it took.

And Christ, did he.

Shit.

He’d known for years that she had gotten off on secretly watching him and John suck and fuck; he hadn’t realized his posh ex-fiance actress preferred to direct the action from across the room, sipping on a glass of fine wine, ordering them into all sorts of positions. She certainly wasn’t shy… and fuck, John enjoyed her naughty game, didn’t he? A bit too much, perhaps.

**~~~**

**Scotland, late March 1986**

The only source of light in the room, a blazing fire in the large stone hearth crackled as wind shook the trees in the cold dark outside the farmhouse. The sultry notes of an old blues record played softly in the background, a soundtrack for the performance. Before each baby-making fuck, Jane required a show from them, different every time… to get her warmed up and all. No camera this time, just her sparkling, entranced turquoise eyes.

Though not in the wording of the written contract signed by her husband, it was part of the verbal deal that she and Paul had sealed over the phone. A secret stipulation… though Paul hadn’t yet realized Jane’s fantasies of being the director.

She had one randy set of voyeuristic bird balls, that Asher.

On the actual night of Jennifer Jane’s conception, the two men started by undressing each other in front of the fireplace, slowly… and now they stood quietly, noses practically touching, John’s warm hands resting on Paul’s narrow hips, both waiting for her next command from the shadows of the far corner of the main room. After their seductive, mutual striptease, Jane had told John to bind Paul’s wrists together behind his back with his necktie; the loose knot was tight enough to keep the illusion believable for her hungry eyes… and tight enough to turn John on like mad.

A log in the fire popped with a sharp hiss, breaking the silence first.

“That’s per... fect. Yes, perfect. All right, down on your knees, McCartney. Put that pretty, philandering mouth to good use.”

Momentarily breaking their eye lock, Paul glanced over towards the direction of her lust-filled voice, increasingly annoyed with her boldness and her not so subtle digs about his past infidelities.

“What the…?”

Paul’s complaint was quickly smothered by John’s left palm. Then, with both hands moved to rest firm on top of Paul’s shoulders, John pulled his partner's attention back with an urgent kiss, mumbling into his lover’s mouth.

“Ssh… s’alright. C’mon then.” John winked. “Mach shau, baby.”

“You’re fucking enjoying this, aren’t ya?” Paul whispered with a growl.

“No.” John murmured back, his expression blank.

“Liar.”

“Philanderer.”

“My fertility clock is tick, tick, ticking over here, boys.” Jane snapped her fingers.

“Bloody hell…”

Letting out a grunt, Paul surrendered to the downward pressure of John’s palms and lowered himself in front of John’s hard throbber, hands still bound together behind his back, his knees resting on the rug beneath them. He stared at Lennon's engorged cock, hypnotized by the pulse of his thick vein, until John broke his trance with a finger under his jaw, tilting up Paul’s chin.

“You do have one fucking beautiful mouth, Macca.” John whispered, his raspy voice heavy with lust, before grabbing a hold of his shaft in one hand, while the other held Paul’s face in place by a fistful of thick, shiny hair. Slowly John began to trace the very tip of his cock along the moist surfaces of Paul’s lips, circling his lover’s mouth over and over, always just a bit out a reach. His tongue flicking out every once in a while to try to steal a taste, Paul closed his eyes, and waited. More languid, slippery circles… more waiting. He nearly forgot she was there, until Jane purred from across the room.

“Slap him across the face with it.”

John coughed with a snort. “That’s not very lady like there, Janey bird.”

“Just do it a couple of times… that’s all.”

Of course… Jane had never really known much of anything about Paul’s lad fetishes.

John did.

A soft smack of hard flesh to his full cheek, followed by another gentle whack to the other mound.

As his own stiff prick jerked and thrashed about, aching to be touched, Paul groaned with a frustrated smile and then opened his mouth. Shit, he loved it when John dick slapped him in the face. It had been too fucking long… a sweet prelude to an amazing blow session. Fuck, Paul loved sucking his luv’s love.

But John only allowed him a couple of furious, wet minutes before he pulled out and rolled Paul over… face down, his right cheek smashed into the carpet, hands behind his back, round bum up in the air, hips held high by a strong left hand latched to his hipbone. With soft, steady strokes, John began to kiss and lick his lover’s sweet hole, eliciting a singsong melody of McMewls.

“Spank him! Spank him, hard!”

John’s jaw clenched; he paused and looked blindly over toward the corner.

“Listen, Janey bird… shut yer filthy posh gob and just fucking watch. Got it?”

No answer. She must have nodded, he figured.

“Good. Cause you’re next, girlie.”

John’s string of snarls drove Paul batshit, nevermind the tingling in his arse, his balls… fucking everywhere. His half crushed mouth pleaded againt the rug fibers, begging for some relief.

“Oh god, fucking touch me… shit, touch me, John.”

“We’ll get there. Patience, Macca.”

“John.”

More pleading McMoans.

“Fucking hell, Jock!”

Paul tried to drop his hips to the floor, tried to find friction to ease the throbbing need in his groin, but John pulled him right back up on bent knees, higher and even more vulnerable than before. A low sob erupted from the back of his partner’s parched throat, as John resumed his sloppy bum kisses; his lips and tongue soon joined by two well-lubed fingers… pushing in and pulling out. Caressing his lover deep inside and stretching, back and forth… preparing.

McCartney was still one little tight-arsed motherfucker.

“Shit… I can’t… take this.”

“Ssh, you will.”

More teasing. More whimpering.

Jane was pleased.

When John finally felt Paul’s furry thighs begin to tremble in erratic spasms, he quickly undid the knotted tie to release his wrists, and rolled the soaked, shaking man over on his back. Holding his partner’s legs wide apart and straight up high by his hairy ankles, John looked down through his mess of wet curls and into Paul’s desperate, heavy-lidded eyes. Out of the corners, he saw Paul’s prick shudder and spasm against his glistening stomach, he saw Paul’s fists clench and twist the low-pile yarns of the carpet.

“Johnny, please…”

A gentle laugh and a loving smile.

“Yes. Now, baby…. now.”

After John poured a dollop of slippery lube in Paul’s waiting palm, McCartney arched his head back, the sinews in his neck taught, his mouth half-open and eyes shut tight. He grabbed his prick with both hands and stroked himself with frantic, animal abandon, as John watched, mesmerized.

“Fuck me, Johnny! Shit, fuck me!”

Finally, he impaled him, fast and hard, until Paul exploded with a ball-shattering, profanity-laced screamer of a blinding orgasm. Gobs of Macca milk sprayed over his torso, trapped in pools in the tangles of his dark chest hair.

As Paul recovered, panting and whimpering and tittering, John tore his gaze from his lover’s ecstatic face, pulled out slowly and bent down, covering Paul’s quivering mouth with slow kisses… deep, wet, possessive kisses. After he pulled his hands free from between their pressed bodies, Paul grabbed John by the hair and pulled him in closer, reaching up when Lennon’s body couldn’t bend any farther.

“Fuck, John. You… are… fucking… amazing.”

“Mmm, so are you. Extraordinary, darling. I love you, Paul.”

“I love you… so fucking bloody much. Shit, Johnny”

As they collapsed against each other, moaning and snogging, writhing together as one in a coating of Paul’s sticky batter, Jane finally exhaled and wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. Clapping her shaking hands silently, she whispered to herself.

“Exquisite, boys.”

**~~~**

**London, 7 October 1986**

John was finally asleep, his head resting on Paul’s bare chest. He’d been manic earlier in the evening, figeting and pacing and jabbering on endlessly about nothing. Paul eventually coaxed him to relax and lured him to bed with a backrub and a stiff, straight-up double-malt.

Finally, Lennon was asleep.

Paul tenderly caressed his soft hair, listening to his heavy breathing; he stared up at the ceiling, distracted still by his own powerful, deep-seated worries.

“Fuck, McCartney. She not gonna change her mind.”

He tried to stop the tape loop in his mind by focusing on other matters, like John and Sean’s birthday celebrations. Suddenly the phone rang, jolting Paul out of his skin. It was fucking late. Who rung them up this bloody late at night?

“Hello.” He tried to keep his voice low, but John soon stirred and woke.

The deep male voice on the other end of the line was speaking too loud and too fast.

“Yes. Uh, huh. Yes, I understand. We’ll be right there. Thanks.”

Propped up on his elbow, John stared at Paul’s far-off expression.

“We’ll be right where?”

“The hospital. Jane’s… Jane’s gone into labor.”

“Paul…” John’s voice cracked and caught in his throat.

_Stay calm, McCartney. For fuck’s sake, stay calm._

“Hmm?”

“It’s too soon. Shit, it’s fucking way too soon, Paul!”

“I know, luv. We gotta go. Get dressed, eh? I’ll ring for the car.”

“Paul.... I can’t lose another child.”

“Sshh, I know… get dressed, John.”


End file.
